and Penelope has chosen to include this vivid impression of Her
Majesty's welcome to Ireland, even though it might convict her of an
anachronism. Perhaps as this is not an historical novel, but a
'chronicle of small beer,' the trifling inaccuracy may be pardoned.-
-K. D. W.


It was worth something to be one of the lunatic populace when the
little lady in black, with her parasol bordered in silver shamrocks,
drove along the gaily decorated streets, for the Irish, it seems to
me, desire nothing better than to be loyal, if any persons to whom
they can be loyal are presented to them.

"Irish disaffection is, after all, but skin-deep," said our friend
the dean; "it is a cutaneous malady, produced by external irritants.
Below the surface there is a deep spring of personal loyalty, which
needs only a touch like that of the prophet's wand to enable it to
gush forth in healing floods. Her Majesty might drive through these
crowded streets in her donkey chaise unguarded, as secure as the
lady in that poem of Moore's which portrayed the safety of women in
Brian Boru's time. The old song has taken on a new meaning. It
begins, you know,-

'Lady, dost thou not fear to stray
So lone and lonely through this dark way?'

and the Queen might answer as did the heroine,

'Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm.'"